


The way you move

by Peoplesing



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dancing, Enjolras is sexually frustrated, Exhibitionism, Grantaire can cook, Grantaire is a dancer, Grantaire is sexy, M/M, handjob, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peoplesing/pseuds/Peoplesing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire is a dancer and Enjolras has to share an appartment with him</p><p>"That made Enjolras angry. He was angry because Grantaire should have put on his ad: dedicated exhibitionist and teasing wet dream."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The way you move

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written that much in... Wait, I never write that much. Like, ever. Even when I do essays I don't write that much!  
> At least that was fun to write. And as a cook, I couldn't help but had some of my personal experience  
> (I need a beta)  
> Please write what you thought of it.

It all started when Enjolras got kicked out of his parent's house, during the month of January. And he knew that it was bound to happen. Still, he wasn't used to be yelled at like that. They had seen him in the news (a protest against the decrease of the number of teachers employed by public schools; where Enjolras had been at the front row, yelling as loudly as he could against the government). And he was downright proud of what he did. Needless to say, his parents weren't ( what a bunch of haughty assholes, so very Gauche Caviar). In short, let's just say they weren't thrilled by the idea of having their only son become an activist. And he wasn't planning on stopping at all. So he left, and didn't plan on coming back for a long time (he'll never come back).

With his little high school diploma in hand, he started searching for a job. Nothing too fancy, just something that payed and that wasn't too mildly boring for his intellectual skills. 

He made a CV, talked to a bunch of friends and frankly he was getting quite desperate. That was until Cosette talked about it to her father. Jean Valjean was working as a teacher at the university of Assas, had been doing so for the past 10 years and, in a stroke of luck, he find the ideal position for Enjolras. Dr. Lamarque, was in fact searching for someone. 

That's how he ended up with a position at Assas as a teacher's assistant (it was paid a misery, still he was getting paid).

Then Enjolras took it as a mission to find a place to live. Anywhere, really (Bossuet's couch was getting painful for his back, and he really didn't want to know what the heck they were doing together, him, Joly and Musichetta in that room at night). 

Moreover, living in a 45m² at 4 was terrible. It was hard to get some time on his own, almost impossible to get the bathroom in the morning and half of the time they fought for petty reasons. It was turning into something unbearable. The problem was that a place to live in Paris Intra Muros was expensive, and he was almost broke. He just had enough to pay a rent for a cheap apartment, and probably one with a roommate if he wanted to eat. 

That's when Bahorel told him about Grantaire. He was living in a 60m² on his own, was a dancer, wasn't much of a pain in the ass(his words) and was searching for a roommate.

“Where did you met him?” He asked.

In a bar, of course. That was so... Bahorel. The one who spent most of his life in bars, working there or simply doing what everyone did in those places, although his nights mostly ended up with him getting into a fight with anyone that was seeking trouble.

Grantaire was a sweet guy, was what he said. Upon Enjolras's insistence, he developed his description:

Grantaire was a 27 and worked as a teacher at the Paris Ballet School, having retired due to too much pressure. The tabloids pretended that he had sank into alcoholism , but Bahorel had assured him that those were just rumors. From his own personal experience, R, as he called him affectionately, was a very happy drunk. And they had spent many nights together at the same table.

His last roommate, Montparnasse, left after being arrested for drug possession. Grantaire had been the one to tip the police off. Bahorel remained vague on the matter. Then again, all of his information came from the bartender, so he wasn't of the total accuracy of his words. 

But, on the other hand he really wanted to get a place to live too. He loved his friends, but Joly's hypochondriac attitude was really starting to get on his nerves. So he decided to try out his luck, having nothing to loose.

They first talked over the phone, Bahorel having given him his number. Grantaire had a low voice, kind of rough on the accentuations. But when he told him who he was, it got significantly higher and more energetic. Frankly, he couldn't tell much after the first contact. They still set up a visit for the day after, to allow him to take a look at the apartment.

They finally met. He made him visit the apartment: The sturdy kitchen where Enjolras would barley set foot anyway, the decent bathroom, the sparse living room (“I mostly use it to practice anyways” he had said) and the free bedroom, which was... Well, it was a bedroom, there was nothing exceptional about it.

Still, it was better than his actual sleeping arrangement. Grantaire looked like a good fellow and the place was nice. And he could afford it. Frankly, he didn't have reasons against it.

The man seemed to like him too. So, the deal got sealed in one discussion. Things were getting smoothly, when Grantaire decided to say:

“I'm a dancer” he stated unnecessarily after the handshook. His grip was firmed and exulted pure confidence. “so it can sometimes be annoying. But I don't practice in the middle of the night.”

Enjolras pursed his lips. “As long as it's not at night...”

Grantaire casted him a wide smile and bowed his head slightly.

“Then, welcome to my humble household, Monsieur Enjolras.”

He should have known...

\---

He should have known that Grantaire was a terrible roommate. No seriously, the blond found it almost impossible to work there. During the day, he would blast music through the whole apartment, the sound of violin or piano filling the rooms in an insistent manner. Seriously, it was a wonder that the neighbors never complained about it. And Grantaire would dance. At night, he would drink or come back drunk.

Thankfully, he was a sympathetic and exuberant when wasted. But Enjolras had classes in the morning. He would more often than not pound on the wall, forcing him to shut up and go to sleep. It's not that he actually needed to sleep, cups of coffee and convictions were keeping him up. He just had a tendency to forget that the time was passing by, and he will only sleep for 4 or 5 hours. But that didn't excused the drunk, although it was hard to stay angry at him. The brown-haired man was sweet. He would never get angry or annoyed. It was like he was born with a smile plastered o his ridiculously cute face. 

He really tried not to be influenced by it. But he really did a bad job at it, or so he was persuaded of. He would scowl, argue and fight about it but the drunk remained as he was. Meaning he would find stumbling and cursing loudly, a bottle in hand more often than not. 

And the conversations were awkward, obviously. Enjolras wasn't one for chit-chat. They didn't know one another, and they came from different social circles. Enjolras was a rich young Parisian that was thrived by History and modern Politics. Grantaire was a cynic, that came from the French suburbs, and not the good kind. He was an art person, out-going and loved to party. 

The first discussions were tensed, to say the least. However, with time, they learned to avoid to talk about politics and modern philosophy. And soon, they learned to like one another, which made the cohabitation easier.

They didn't have to like another. They just needed to live together.

Well, at least it could have been, until Enjolras started being aware of certain things. Grantaire was hot, and he showed it.

It all began with a simple observation on his part: Grantaire didn't like clothes. At least, that's what he had to deduce after a while. It didn't matter that it was the end of the winter, Grantaire would always parade around, wearing shorts or too thin shirts, further more being shirtless or even, sometimes, forgetting the invention of pants. Not that he had anything to hide.

It was just... It was distracting. He had a nice body, being a dancer. It was lean but not skinny, with muscles in all the right places, well-defined collarbones and a narrow waist. Yes, Grantaire had a prefect plastic, and it made him bite his lips in wonder.

The obsession actually started one morning. He was up kind of late for once thanks to a Sunday, and he got up as usual, still sleepy, before he mechanically went into the hallway, in direction of the kitchen. He hadn't even made 2 steps that his roommate got out too, wearing only a pair of black boxers. He yawned, looking back at the blond and his flannel pajamas (he was cold,not a natural boiler like the dark-haired man), before he saluted him wordlessly, a smirk forming on his lips. 

And, no, he didn't see the boxers slipping off a little as the brown-haired man strode off, showing a little of his pale ass. And no, he didn't stare at it in wonder. He didn't.

He closed his eyes, shutting everything out. 

Fuck.

And he went back to his room to find a way, any way, to kill off his hard on. 

\----

Enjolras was having a shitty day. Then again, first days were always shitty. You were awkward and felt lonely, not knowing where to go and who to talk to. And this first day was probably the worst he ever had.

It all started in the morning, when his phone started blaring his alarm, “la Marseillaise”, at a god forsaken hour, way earlier than what he was used to. He had to leave the apartment without a cup of coffee, simply because he lacked the time to make one. Then the bus seemed to have decided that Enjolras just had to be late (bloody road works). And Enjolras hated being late, because it showed, according to him, a serious lack of seriousness and commitment. 

He crossed the heavy wooden doors of the university 20 minutes late, and he just had to get lost in the building.

Enjolras seriously hated his life. Lamarque had said he didn't mind and had welcomed him in the huge lecture hall as if it wasn't bad , but it still had been goddamn embarrassing. 

At 10 o'clock, he finally got a break and Lamarque directed him to the teacher's lounge. Once there, he set himself in search of coffee. The history teacher got into an animated discussion with the Dean (a flawless man with a grimace plastered on his face, that answered to Javert) and everyone was busy doing their thing, not minding the lost looking blond. A few teachers were fighting over the copy machine, stacks of paper in their clutched hands. It was the only commotion in the room, along with the regular sound of people typing on their laptops and the scratching of copies being graded.

He finally spotted the coffee machine, a huge thing from the 90's that looked like it had seen better days. 40 cents for a coffee was cheap, at least. His hands went to his pocket for any money he had. Only 30 cents... He was about to seriously curse and yell out loud, frustrated by the fact that only 10 cents were separating him from a bloody cup of industrial coffee, but, as if sent by providence...

“Here.” Someone said behind him.

It was a man with short red hair and a shy smile on his face, barley older than him. He was holding a 10cent coin in his hand, handing it to him like it was no big deal. And Enjolras could have kissed him right now. That was how important his coffee was for him.

“Oh my God. Thank you.” He said sincerely, as he pushed the coins in the machine's slot. It made a terrifying sound but no one in the room seemed to care. The coffee was disgusting too, but it was still coffee, with enough caffeine to keep him awake. 

He moved backwards to allow the lithe man to order his drink, his hands grasping the plastic cup as if was the holy Grail. 

He could have just left it there and leave the red-haired man to his own thing. Instead, he patiently waited for the machine to stop it's ruckus, before he started a conversation, as the most natural thing in the world.

“That coffee is shit.”

That made his benefactor smirked.

“Everything is shit here. I wouldn't try out the canteen if I were you. That place has sent more teachers to the hospital than any students ever would. And God knows they're a bunch of ungrateful brats.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Probably the fact that they're all a bunch of spoiled bastards pullig strings with the help of their overly rich or important parents. You get all kind of young adults in here, but not even half of them will show any love for their studies.”

Enjolras just took a sip, a little uncomfortable. He used to be one of those. But he changed. He started to see the world for what it really was and was indignant by it. He went to protests and do what he could to change the world. Until now, it had failed, but Enjolras was persistent. 

“I see what you mean. But I thought Assas was a public university.”

They moved together towards the only window in the room. And the stranger shook his head, continuing:

“It doesn't change anything. With money comes power and even education can be corrupted. A little donation here, a name said there and all the doors get open. It's sickening if you're asking me.”

He turned to towards his savior, taking in the flower-patterned shirt, the bright oranges pants and the stylish shoes. He was truly an original, but also the only person that willingly talked to him without feeling obligated to.

“I know what you mean. Did you went to the protest in January?”

“Of course. Me and a couple of friends from here attended it. Feuilly got hurt there, you know, when the riot started...”

Guilt surged at the declaration. He may have not purposely started the “side-step”, but he was responsible of it. Let's just say that his words got out of hand when a policeman started calling him a: “pretty little bourgeois thing”. He had jumped at that, followed by Bahorel that would do anything to hit a sell-out cop with a petty attitude.

In any case, the man continued his comment:

“We often go together to that kind of thing. If you want to join.”

“Of course, anything for the right of the people.”

The man presented him his unoccupied hand.

“I'm Jehan. Literature and poetry with Hugo.”

The ink splattered on his thin fingers proved his statement. Enjolras shoke his with assurance. 

“Enjolras” He finally let out after a sip, “modern history”

A muted understanding passed between the 2 of them.

“My pleasure. You're with Lamarque, right?” He nodded, “He's a really good teacher. At least, from what I've heard.”

“He's an exceptional man.” The blond agreed. 

“So when you are ready to start a revolution?”

“Whenever you want. How about tonight?”

Jehan's smile radiated through the room.

“I knew you were into politics. You've got that glint in your eyes.”

And just like that, his day got inexplicably better. 

When he got home that night, Grantaire was in the living room, watching football with Bahorel ( soccer, of course, they were French). They seemed to have been here for a while, according to the number of empty beer bottles on the floor.

Bahorel was yelling noisily at the TV:

“That referee is an asshole!” His fist was raised in frustration, “Is he blind or something? Shit! Who the hell hired that guy?”

Grantaire just laughed, before looking up at Enjolras.

“ Hey, you. How was school?”

“Tiring, he said, sitting down next to the dancer, “How's the match going?”

“PSG 1 and Saint-Etienne 0. But Paris sucks tonight.”

“It's that son of a bitch of...” But Bahorel interrupted himself suddenly, as one of the Parisian kickers got closer to the goal.

“I made food if you want. Pasta à la provencale.” Stated Grantaire, taking a sip of his beer.

“Yeah, sure.” He answered.

He stayed there a while longer, talking about trivial things with the 2 men. Unfortunately, he had work to do. So he went back to his room, with the food that had heated in the microwave.

And Enjolras tasted it, then ate the whole container, alone, in his room, with an excessive amount of moaning ( it wasn't porn). Needless to say, the food was divine.

\---

Grantaire also had a tendency to forget his clothes when he took a shower. The first time, the blond could only stare at him, speechless, as the brown-haired man blushed and try to cover himself up (it was pointless, he had already caught sight of it, and God, he was well-endowed). The both of them had then ran to their respective rooms, but not for the same reasons. “Sometimes I forget that I'm all alone in here” he had say sheepishly. But then it happened again, and again. My ass, thought Enjolras, it had to be a conspiracy. 

The dancer would always apologize when it happened, but it still occurred regularly. 

They learned to cohabit together. He did the laundry and there was a reason why. One time Grantaire forgot a purple sock in the white laundry. Since that day Enjolras insisted on doing the laundry (he had given away his clothes to Jehan, who was ravished by them; Grantaire kept them. He would sometimes catch him with a pair of lavender boxers that definitely came from that mis-fortunate accident). And Grantaire cooked, and, more precisely, reminded him to eat. The teacher's assistant would take care of the groceries, the dancer took care of the bills. Neither of them were extremely tidy, but one of them will regularly make sure to pass the vacuum once in a while. It short it became disturbingly domestic.

In the meantime, he still went to work and learned more about Jehan. They quickly became friends, hailing one another in the corridors or eating together at the bistro down the street. It was easy to talk with him, although the poet was generally the one leading the conversation. 

He was up early on that Saturday, motivated by a text from the poet. They were supposed to join a manifestation at La Bastille, against another raise of the taxes by the government. He had proposed to Grantaire to join them the night before, who had promptly declined: “Sure, the raise is a bad thing, but where do you expect them to find money with the recession?” It had hurt and he had refused to talk to him ever since. It didn't matter. Jehan was coming, so did Combeferre, a friend from high school.

So it came as a surprise to find Grantaire in the kitchen before noon and only wearing his boxers. His morning wood, not quite dead yet, definitely took interest in the sight. He bit his tongue, trying to control himself.

The dancer was using a a frying pan, making some eggs and sausages. He barley turned, acknowledging the blond with a smile, concentrated on the food.

“Morning. Want some breakfast?”

“Yeah, sure” he answered mechanically, containing himself.

(his back, curved impossibly, glistening with sweat) 

He coughed. Loudly as he tried to get himself comfortable on the kitchen chair.

“So how the new job settling?” The dancer asked, making conversation as he got out more eggs from the fridge.

“Fine. Just fine. Lamarque's a good teacher.”

“What is he teaching again?”

“20th century history. The beginning of the 5th Republic mostly”

“A the good stuff. I'm more into the 19th myself. Zola and the Naturalism. Verlaine ...”

The blond grimaced at that, folding his arms on the glass table. His hair rose from his skin, and he wondered how the dancer couldn't be cold right now. Surely he could put something on...

“Of course you would.”

He hadn't meant to sound so harsh, but it was true. Grantaire was like the Romantic hero of every writer from the 19th century. He represented the spleen, the melancholia. He was the man without without belief, standing, nonetheless.

Enjolras unfortunately became distracted again. Even the back of his knees looked sexy. How was that even possible? He briefly wondered if he was sensible there, if he would like being touched and licked there. 

He shook his head in disbelief. Knees? Really? 

“We said no politics, right?” He finally let out, struggling to come back to his normal self.

“Yeah of course. You're the one that thinks about Republics and Democracies But... Apollo. You should see the art. The Orsay museum is a perfect example of what I'm talking about?”

Caught between the compliment and incredulity, he chose to rise an eyebrow at the dancer, that, for once, looked fairly interested in the conversation.

“Apollo, really?”

And Grantaire laughed, true and whole-heartedly, before he finally turned, the pan in his thin hand.

“Yes. Apollo. Have you seen yourself? You look like one of the statues of the main room. You should go and see for yourself.”

“Like I have time for that.” He scoffed, his fingernails hitting the glass repeatedly. 

He truly didn't. Between his work at the university, at home and the protests he regularly attended to, he was swapped. 

“You should make some. Lautrec's dancers at the cabaret, Degas' little ballet girl, Falguière's statues... And you should go out sometimes. And by go out I don't necessarily mean get laid... Just do anything not work or duty related.”

Enjolras couldn't help the blush spreading on his cheeks and down his neck at his words. Grantaire didn't say anything, or never noticed, as he struggled with a couple of plates. In the end he only said:

“Art doesn't make us live. But it allows us to breath.” He handed him a full plate, before sitting down with one himself. “Rolland Barthes. And I know a thing or 2 about that, since I dance for a living.”

Enjolras was about to answer back, but his stare blocked at the sight of the cynic's collarbone, black beauty spots clashing against the milky white skin. He had to force himself to look back up at his face, because who was he kidding? The man was a piece of art by himself.

And who knows? Maybe he'll spare a couple of hours to to the Orsay...

“But that's just my humble opinion.” Grantaire finished, levering himself up from his chair. For a moment, Enjolras truly though he was upset, but instead the man went to the cabinet to retrieve a bottle of Cointreau. A glass ended up being served, as if it was casual to do so at 9 in the morning. Enjolras arched his eyebrows and Grantaire shrugged his shoulders, and the world came back into a twisted normality.

\-----

Enjolras would completely loose any notion of time when he was working. It was like he was in a bubble that no sound or distraction could burst. Unfortunately, sometimes, his body would rebel against his concentration, and he just had to answer the need. Lost in a lesson about the 5th republic, he suddenly felt the unbearably thirsty. Feeling a little upset because of the weakness of his body, he reluctantly left his room to get a bottle of water in the kitchen. To access it, he had to pass by the living room to get there.

Grantaire had pushed the couches out of the way to allow some room to practice.

And he was in there. He walked in it casually, not expecting to find him bending over the flood, his legs and his upper body almost glued together and his perfect ass up in the air. He lifted himself up when he heard him coming in, groaning a little as pulled on his back.

Oh my God.

Grantaire was now facing him, stretching throughly his arms. He was only wearing a pair of short black pants, with bare, thin calves... And he was shirtless, showing off a trail of black hair from his navel to his waistband on his flat stomach. 

Shit.

“Hey Enjolras” he said, completely obvious to his roommate's torment.

He was panting a little, breathless after his preliminary exercises ( And Fuck, he couldn't help himself but imagine Grantaire lying on a bed, loosing the rhythm of his breath for a whole other reason).

“Huh... Hey. How's practice?” He inquired, watching as the man flexed his long finger rapidly.

“Good. Good. I was about to start one of my routines. Would you like to watch?” He could only nod, his face closed. Grantaire smiled at that and took a big breath to prepare himself.

Then, he started his computer and the music flew in. It was the same kind of haughty, classical music that his parents used to turn on in their house. Except that here it fitted. The violin started and Grantaire took his position.

And then he started to dance. The routine fell easily for Grantaire. He executed the steps with straightness and precision, along with the music that was coming out of the laptop. 1 2 3 4. 5 6 7 8. He danced, his back curved gracefully and his arms flying everywhere. It was spectacle to behold, only for Enjolras's eyes. The dancer paid no mind to him, dancing in a way that was too sharp to be natural, carrying on jumps, spins and paces that he knew by heart. Everything was perfect, from the turn of his heels to the flex of his fingers. 

And he kept watching, his mouth even drier, thoughts that he shouldn't have filling his weak mind.

But all good things come to an end. Unfortunately. Grantaire stopped at the same time as the music did in a pirouette, his feet landing with a light thump on the wooden floor. His skin was damp and he breathing deeply, in and out. Because of course he had to notice that. He wiped casually some of the sweat with the back of his hand and Enjolras couldn't help but be mesmerized by the sight of him. Honestly, if he wasn't holding on to the sofa, he would be at his feet right now.

“Magnificent...” He murmured to himself. Because it was and he was too.

“You think so? Thanks for the compliment. I haven't practiced that one in a long time.”

Grantaire's smile could have cured cancer right now. Enjolras would have sworn on it.

He needed to wank so much right now, he though as he clung closer to the couch, hiding quite efficiently his hardness.

\----

He was sitting at a Café one afternoon, with his friend, Cosette. They had known each other for a very long time, having met when they were kids, at church class and their friendship had sprout ever since. 

She was a lovely blond, with doey blue eyes and forms in all the right places. Frankly, hadn't he been gay, they probably would be dating. And a lot of men wanted to do that. But she was taken, preferring the company of awkward and sweet Marius Pontmercy.

A lot of people were staring a them. The 2 blonds were looking peculiarly stunning in the afternoon light, sitting at the terrace of a random Café .

They were mostly catching up on the banality of their lives, from his work to the preparation of her wedding with Marius. It wasn't like anything extraordinary had happened to either of them. Except that, eventually, Enjolras had to bring up the subject.

“Let's just say, that friend of mine has a very hot roommate. And he wants to jump him.”

Cosette froze, her hand on the handle of her drink before she burst out, laughing. And she kept doing so, as she turned into an alarming shade of red, unable to face the embarrassed blond for 2 minutes straight.

“Euphrasie...” He moaned quietly, begging for less attention. That was her actual first name, a name that she hated. And Enjolras always used it when he was annoyed by the exuberant girl. And it worked. She blanched, her eyes throwing invisible daggers at him, but he just shrugged it off.

“Hm “ she ended coughing to recompose herself, the people around staring at the duo, but she paid no mind to them “well that... That friend of yours, does he only sees him as a piece of meat? I mean, usually I would say to just fuck him and get on with it... But if you... Them, are living together, it does make things a tad bit more complicated, right?”

She crossed her legs casually, making her red dress ruffle slightly. A guy next to them eyed at them appreciatively, and Enjolras couldn't help but glare at him meanly. As for Cosette, she didn't seem to be bothered by it, waiting for him to answer. He sighed. 

“No. It's not like that. They like one another. He's a nice guy and a great friend. It's just that his libido is getting out of control...”

“I see. So... He likes him?”

“...Yeah.”

“And... Has the roommate shown any evidence that, he might like him back?”

“I don't know. It's complicated. I think he can be a little dense sometimes.”

She just smiled, her hand covering his in a sign of comfort.

“Then he shouldn't jump into something that he's not sure himself. If they are roommates, it could turn messy. It would be even worse even if he does it just for sex. But if he's sure of himself, maybe he should take a leap of faith.”

“So your advice is to... Wait?”

She nodded slowly but confidently, her eyes not leaving his.

“Yeah. You're right. They still have time to figure this out and be sure about what they feel.”

Enjolras just bowed down his head, feeling a little prostrated by idea. He didn't want to wait. 

Cosette's hands went to her cup, and she said while taking a sip:

“Still, you, having to control your sexual drive... Marius is going to be shocked when he'll learned about this one.”

“It's not me!” Enjolras cried out, blushing furiously.

And Cosette just chuckled knowingly.

\---

With time, he kind of got used to Grantaire. Most of the time, he would catch him dancing or strutting around half naked. But he certainly didn't expect to get home and find Grantaire baking. Enjolras found him in the kitchen, covered in floor, the pale matter covering his stark hair in a halo. That wasn't what he expected to see when he got home from work. Grantaire was holding a wooden pin, rolling out the pastry with strong movements.

“I'm making a tart for tonight” He said as a hello “What do you prefer, apple or peach?”

He wore an apron. A cliché “kiss the cook” apron that gave him dirty thoughts just by seeing it on him.

“Where did you get that?” He asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“That?” He chuckled, “that was a gift from a friend of mine. Eponine. She just have a weird sense of humor.”

“Yeah right.”

“So, what about the topping?”

“Hm... Peach is fine.”

Grantaire cocked his head, a smile on his lips.

“Good choice. Do you want to help me with it?”

He could have said yes and gone help him, spending time with him. But he wasn't sure his cock could stay down for an hour, and he also was embarrassed by the fact he couldn't cook for shit. He would probably mess up pastas, for Christ's sake. He just sighed, setting his hands into his pockets.

“No thanks. I'm not much of a cook. Truth be told, I'll only make a mess of everything.”

“Suit yourself. But it's always better when you do it yourself.”

He just lowered his head and smiled shyly. 

“I'm sure it will be delicious.” 

And of course it was.

\---

All of that will end up getting Enjolras mad. He was horny almost all the time, and he wasn't the kind of guy that jerked up at every hour of the day. But at some point, he had too.

For once, Grantaire was out, so Enjolras took it as an opportunity to prepare a test for one of Lamarque's classes. Well, he tried. He was alone, sitting straight at his desk in front of a stack of papers but something was off.

He caught himself missing the sheer laughter, the classical music and all that made the apartment lively. Because Grantaire made the apartment (his home), lively. 

But he wasn't there. And, somehow, concentrating on his work was becoming impossible.

That made Enjolras angry. He was angry because Grantaire should have put on his ad: dedicated exhibitionist and teasing wet dream.

His skin was pale, so pale that it must be bruising easily. Oh, how Enjolras would love to make it blue, marking him as his. He knew about the birthmark he had in the hollow of his hip, the specks of black marking his back, beauty marks forming constellations here and there.

He had in his mind the curves and muscles of the dancer, the flex of his biceps, the V of his hips that went into his waistband, the fineness of his hands (scratching the skin of his back, caressing his chest, his tongue, following a trail of sweat...).

His jeans were too tight, bothering his hardness. He unzipped them in defeat, his hand going straight into his underwear, teasing the line of his cock. His left hand held the desk, as his right started jerking off swiftly.

Grantaire would love the roughness. He would cry and moan, writhing helplessly under him as he would plunged his cock in his ass that he kept staring at for weeks. He would love the taste of his lips, his hands would take such good care of him, if only...

Enjolras moaned loudly, readjusting his grip, before going in back in again, lost in the fantasy.

Oh, he would make him dance under him, he would make him sing... Filthy words, outrageous demands, sweet promises in his ear...

When he came, it was intense, his voice rasping at the strain, and with cum splashing in his hand and boxers.

He was in deep shit.

\----

Somehow, someway, Enjolras ended up at a bar a Friday. He still couldn't how that came to be. He could only recall Grantaire yelling loudly “YOLO!” like a prepubescent teenager at the idea, then the pout that adorned his face when Enjolras himself said no.

Alas, he couldn't resist him for too long.

So, despite his reservations, he went with Grantaire. And Bahorel, the barman and the dancer being inseparable. He also had brought his friends Courfeyrac and Marius that were more than happy to go out all together. The music was loud, almost covering every sounds and the 6 of them could barley talk. But, like Bahorel said, they weren't here to talk, were they?

Enjolras didn't feel very at ease there. He wasn't much of a party guy, that was a fact. He wasn't much of a drinker either. He could hold his liquor, like anyone average, he guessed. He just didn't like alcohol. It made him loose control, and his grasp of reality. That was generally what people sought when they drank, but he couldn't help but feel unsecured by it.

So without dancing or drinking and with a music so loud you had to yell if you wanted to have a conversation, Enjolras really had nothing to do.

Grantaire, on the contrary was completely in his element.

He may be a ballet dancer, but he was also a god of the dance floor, swaying with his arms up at the beat of an electro song. He looked happy, with his curls bouncing around his face, laughing with his eyes crinkled at the corners. He had tried to make him dance after a first drink (a Fireball for him and a Crantini for Enjolras) but the blond had been categorical about it: he had already managed to drag him here, there wasn't much more he could hope to do. He think he saw a hint of disappointment in his eyes, but it instantly vanished as he went to the dancefloor, accompanied by Bahorel.

Grantaire could be graceful and handsome and perfect. In here, he was sex, downright obscene, as his hips moved in such a way, against a random brunette with clothes barley covering her up. But it was him that interested Enjolras, him and his tight shirt and jeans that frankly didn't leave much to the imagination. 

It made his mouth water.

But Enjolras had to keep up appearances. He just stood up at the bar with Marius, listening to him doing an apology of Cosette. Inwardly, he was getting really annoyed by it. At least he wasn't doing any poetry about her. It would be simply dreadful. He simply had to make sure Marius would never meet Jehan. The thing was, Marius wasn't good anything. And that included talking, making speeches and probably poetry and dancing. Anything was better than let him dance. When Marius moved, he was halfway between a man having a seizure and Elmo the puppet. So, no dancing for Mr. Pontmercy. 

He took as sip of his drink, before looking up in order to try to spot his friends.

Bahorel had found himself trapped by 2 lovely blond girls, so alike they could probably be sisters, as he kept grinding between them in a fast pace.

Courfeyrac was making his move on a group of girls around a table. Seeing the way they were laughing, it was going well.

And Grantaire had fixed his choice on a pretty redhead, slim as a twig and without any more clothes than the brunette from before. He hated her instantly, but he couldn't do anything about it. Enjolras frowned at that. He wasn't usually the jealous type. But he had a tendency of awaking something foreign and special within him.

He just contained himself and bitted his bottom lip bitterly.

“You should go talk to him.” A feminine voice said, coming from the other side of the bar.

It was the barmaid, a lithe brunette, a lot shorter than him but that still exulted confidence. If she could see he was into Grantaire, how couldn't he?

“It's not like that. He's my roommate.”

“So? You want him. Just let him know.” Her voice was loud but she wasn't yelling, proof that she was used to talk like this. Enjolras on the other hand, had more difficulties. He paused for a while, trying to help his sore throat. At the same time, he noticed that Marius hadn't stop talking, even though nobody was listening to him. 

“It's complicated.” He ended up saying.

“I don't see why. You want him, and seeing how hot you are, he would be insane not to want you. Just tell him. Or stick your tongue in his throat. Both will work.”

“Don't you have other clients to serve?” 

“Don't you have a brunette to swoon?” She retorted back, having dealt with more snappy clients.

This could have gone on for a while, but instead Marius decided to swoop in. “Hey, I'm Marius.” Interrupted the red head, completely inviting himself into the conversation. The barmaid seemed unfazed by it, eying at him shamelessly. 

“I'm Eponine.” She said, a flirtatious hint in her tone. “How are you doing on this fine night?”

She leaned on the counter, showing off her advantageous cleavage.

“I'm fine, dear Eponine. How about another drink?”

Enjolras watched them chat for a while. He raked his hand through his hair, unsure of what to do. The girl was set on Marius and he didn't have the heart to tell her it was no use.

Didn't Grantaire mentioned at friend of his named Eponine? Surely it was another one...

His mind went back to Grantaire. As always. He often wondered about his sexuality. And he felt dumb to ask. Sure, he was a ballet dancer, but not every guy in that discipline were necessarily gay.

Moreover, Grantaire was such an odd entity, so unique on his own that he could very well be into the opposite sex. And he really seemed to like dancing with that girl.

Still...

He reminded himself of his talk with Cosette and resolved himself not to ask. After all the fact that Grantaire could be hay didn't justify jumping him.

Did it?

He was deeply tempted to call it a night a go home, where he would either desolate himself or jack off, depending on his mood. Pathetic...

“Hiya” Grantaire said, suddenly at his side. He smelled strongly like rum and he was completely flush, his shirt clinging at his lean body, way too close from Enjolras.

“We should go.” he whispered in his ear, as the blond held him by his side, supporting most of his weight.

“Don't you wanna go out? The red head wasn't interesting enough? Unless she was the one not interested...”

“Nah. I'm fine with you. Let's just go home.”

And his heart fluttered at that. They bid goodbye to Marius, who was still talking to the waitress, completely obvious to the fact that she was hitting on him (it will take him forever to notice it, she will probably get tired of him way before that). Crossing the dancefloor revealed itself hard, considering the large amount of people down there, but thankfully not impossible, And they actually to squeezed out of there without loosing one another (Grantaire had a vice grip on his hand, slightly sweaty and warm but not at all disgusting).

They went outside without a word, catching a cab right out of the club. The duo managed to slide on the backseat of a random one, as Enjolras gave their address up to the driver, a scruffy looking guy that was bored out of his mind. At least he didn't looked like he wanted to engage any small talk, which the blond was grateful for.

Grantaire was half glued to the other man, more leaning on him than on the actual seat. But it was nice and it sent shivers down his spine, something he wouldn't even admit to himself. 

He reluctantly tried to make him stop, not liking the hard look of the only witness (the driver, probably a homophobic prick that wanted nothing more but to kick them out). But Grantaire just shifter closer, resting on the blond, that felt more and more uncomfortable in the leather seat. And he didn't know if it was the alcohol or not, but he wasn't just blushing right now, he face was more completely red, like a tomato. And the drunk didn't or couldn't see anything. He just lodged his head in the crook of his neck, his hot breath regularly meeting the pale skin of the more sober man, slowly falling into a state of sleepiness. And Enjolras didn't mind. Not really. 

\----

For once, Enjolras got home surprisingly early. It wasn't even 4 in the afternoon, but Valjean had let him go, taking pity on him. He wasn't sure if he was to expect Grantaire at home, and wasn't even sure he wanted him to be there.

The main door was half open. Suspicious, he got in. After all, it could be a burglar. He closed the door slowly and without a sound, measuring his steps. The studio seemed silent. He quickly went into the kitchen and considered the knives. It would be a bad thing, to stab someone, trespasser or not. He also couldn't even believe himself to do so. 

So he settled himself to the next best thing: Grantaire's wooden rolling pin, that was lying innocently on the counter, next to the toaster. 

He gripped at it with both of his clenched hands, his heart beating rapidly.

Grantaire's room was open too. A loud cry came out of it and the sound made his blood freeze. Maybe he was hurt, maybe something had happened to him.

He wasn't. 

The dancer was naked, not that it was the first time that Enjolras saw his ass. But, fuck... He was fapping blatantly, carelessly, straddling his bed and his back to the door. His clothes were scattered everywhere, as if gotten rid of in a hurry.

He whined loudly, bowing down his head and his movement never failing.

Enjolras bit his lips, containing his own moan. This was just torture. He didn't want Grantaire to find him like this, but on the other hand, he simply couldn't tear his eyes off, as all of his blood traveled south, making it hard for him to breath.

And when he thought it couldn't get worse, or better, Grantaire whined:

“Enjolras”

At the call of his name, the blond bit his lip even stronger, drawing blood. His heart was thumping in his ears. It was his name, his bloody name that was leaving the tantalizing lips.

Oh my fucking God.

And then, he did a mistake. A beautiful and perfect mistake. His grip on the rolling pin loosened suddenly and it fell down in a ear-piercing “thump”.Enjolras froze, flushed and sweaty and taken back. Grantaire turned his head towards the origin of the interruption.

His blue eyes widen significantly as he recognized his roommate.

“Enjolras...” he whispered, his tone hesitant and scared.

But the blond didn't hesitate. He almost ran to the bed and he drew Grantaire into a bruising kiss. The other man gasped as an answer and it wasn't sweet. No, it was hot and hungry and wet, the past weeks of tension finally reaching the point of breaking.

It was all of Enjolras's frustration, poured into that kiss.

It didn't mattered that his mouth tasted like iron, he plunged his tongue roughly into Grantaire's mouth, and he answered back with all he had, teeth bumping, both of their tongues twisting and slithering at each other.

Their hands were ever-moving, eager to discover, to find what made the other one tick, so close. His slightly tan skin against the milky white and he couldn't help but marvel at the contrast.

The both of them clutched at each other as if their lives depended on it, uncaring and indelicately. They were on their knees on the bed, their breaths matching and their hearts fluttering, when Grantaire retrieved from the kiss.

“Don't-ha!- Don't we need to talk about this?” He asked, with a shallow breath.

Enjolras took a moment to stop what he was doing, his fierce eyes looking straight into his.

“No we don't.”

And he went back in. Heat and wetness and all.

He could have been at it for a minute or an hour, but he eventually let go out his mouth, only to attack the dancer's neck, peppering the overheating skin in an almost compulsive manner. Grantaire in return started shedding the brunette's clothes off, with an efficient ruthlessness considering the situation they were in. And no, he didn't forget his shoes and socks (a pair of mismatched one, one white and one deep blue).

Enjolras could barley keep his hands off of him. It was one thing to fantasies about someone, and entirely another to be able to slide, brush and tug at all the places he wanted to. It was almost surreal to be able to feel the heath radiating from the body against his, to able to feel every shift, every shiver, every sound. And Grantaire was vocal. Not loud, but every touch seemed to make him react, whimpering and groaning every single time.

“God dammit” the brown-haired man finally let out “would fucking be done with it?”

Enjolras smirked, pretending to hesitate, before he took a hold of Grantaire's cock, appreciating the heaviness of it against his palm.

“Do... you have... Any idea... How much of a tease... you are.” He whispered, punctuating every-time with a kiss and a jerk of his hand.

“If I had known... Ah... We would have started this a lot sooner... Do you.. Oh God... Have you seen yourself? You're gorgeous.”

He widen his smile.

“Right back at you.” He said wickedly, before tightening his hold on his length. That made Grantaire cried out, and he returned the favor, to Enjolras's pleasure.

When Grantaire grasped at him, he thought he was going to come right there, right now. Instead, he resumed his ministrations throughly. He just had to grunt when Grantaire teased him with his thumb, the finger playing with the head of his cock with perfect pressure. God, it was like those hand were made for this. 

“Apollo...” Grantaire started moaning, his cheeks becoming more red than ever with time passing by.

“Stop calling me that” He said, a pout on his lips, looking at him a little taken back.

Grantaire looked at him, his stare so intense a little ruined by his scarlet blush and his difficulty to speak properly.

“But you are. Apollo.” He answered, shifting up to lean on him. He kissed his lips, the ones still forming a moue, then went down to tease him and the hard lines of his body. Everything was heighten. He felt alive, burning, singing at every touch that Grantaire administered to him.

But it still didn't forgive the surname.

“Stop it” He growled, his voice low and rough right next to his ear.

“I like it... when you get bossy like that” Grantaire countered back, way too cheeky for a man that had a hold on his prick. He should remedy to that.

“What else do you like” He asked, a certain edge within his voice, tugging on Grantaire.

“I like... The way you talk... Your voice... Oh God... Determinate... Cold but... Passionate... Your revolution...ah!”

Not all of it made sense but he had to make due of it.

“Do I look cold to you?” He whispered, almost hovering and making Grantaire bent his spine backwards, “I'm feeling way too hot. It's you. It's always been you. You're driving me insane. I can't even-”

“Do you even know” he half snarled, “you make me wanna jerk off. All. The. Fucking. Time.”

Grantaire just moaned, finally unable to answer back (and he should have used that technique way earlier. It was efficient.) 

They continued fapping, almost in sync, as their knuckles meet time and time again. Their were close. Grantaire had his free hand gripping harshly at his hair, his elbow resting against his shoulder, as Enjolras dug his blunt nails into the skin of his back, just under the ribs. 

The sounds the dancer was making... 

When his orgasm arrived, his hands involuntary squeezed the other man's cock a little tighter, making Grantaire let out a strangled whimper that was anything but elegant. But it didn't matter. None of it did. Because he could have sworn he saw white stars behind his shut eyes. Grantaire joined him soon after, as he bit a little viciously into Enjolras's collarbone that would certainly bruise. And he will wear it with pride.

It took them a while to regain from their cumming, as they lied down on the bed, trying to regain a regular breathing pattern. The sweat on their bodies started to chill as they still clung lazily to one another.

“Am I to expect such a welcome everyday from now on?” Enjolras ended up asking, a hint of irony in his tone, making Grantaire laugh.

“That depends on you, Apollo.” He teased, lifting himself off the bed and the sheets pooling down in a graceful movement.

He could have sworn that Grantaire actually swayed his hips as strolled outside, probably to go to the bathroom. He didn't mind, eying appreciatively at the naked body. His short trip was interrupted as he stumbled on something on the ground. He looked down, reached for it, before he cocked a dubious eyebrow at the blond.

He held the rolling pin in his hands.

“Really? What were you expecting to do with that?”

He felt himself blush because of the quip and the dancer's amused stare, folding his arms around himself.

“Shut up.” He snapped back, not really upset.

“Make me.”

And it was on.


End file.
